Cruel World
by swiftasdeer
Summary: His main focus is on hunting down scumbags. The city is littered with them and in a way, he thinks maybe it was his calling, to try and scrub this place clean as best he could. Bethyl AU.
1. the kind of people you or I am

**This is fairly different from things I have written in the past. I was somewhat inspired by (film) noir so you can expect some violence and other shady activities; parts of it are pretty dark but just like Beth, there is light at the end of the tunnel. This will probably be three or so chapters/parts in length.**

 **Hopefully you enjoy it! Thank you for reading. :)**

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There's a reason this place is the dirtiest city east of the Mississippi. Everything's coated in a layer of filth and dirt and grime. Blood runs in the gutters and there's practically a body in every dumpster. Hell, the sun doesn't even seem to want to come out that much anymore. That must be why it's so damn cold. November isn't even near over.

There's a constant trickle of rainwater from the spout and he wonders how long it'll be before it freezes. His boots are just starting to skim across the ground and he thinks about how many corpses they'll find this winter, frozen rigid and still like popsicles.

A friend of his was found once, a few years back. It was the worst night of his life but he took out some of his heartache on her bastard of a husband. Pummeling fists until he could barely lift his arms and the prick was still as night. There wasn't a second body found that night; he can't call himself a murderer. And Daryl was out of earshot before he could be linked to anything. Sometimes though, he wishes he had just finished the damn job. Nobody would've mourned for Ed Peletier. Not even his little girl, probably.

Sophia grew attached to him over time. There are nights when Daryl doesn't get home until the sun's starting to creep up. He's usually bleary-eyed and heavy-footed by then and the first time he walked in and spotted the young girl curled up on his couch like a kitten, he didn't know what to do. Did he take her home? He couldn't do that, not if her father was there. So he tucked a blanket around her and didn't ask what she was doing there or how she got in once she woke. He never asked and she never told, and that was okay. Because Daryl understands her situation better than anyone else probably could.

When she was younger, she used to make him things sometimes, drawings and such. He figured it was her way of thanking him but she didn't need to do that; it was the least he could do, for her and for her late mom. Her sketches were usually of happy scenes, lots of bright colors and animals and smiling faces. She was pretty damn talented, he thought. Good kid too, the quiet kind.

One late morning he woke up to a few drawings on newspaper, scattered on living room floor. Sophia was long gone, her shoes no longer tossed in the corner and the blanket she used neatly folded up on the couch. Daryl picked up the discarded papers and flipped through them idly; they were a bit more refined than her usual doodles. They were black and white, heavily lined skyscrapers etched over the smeared text on the paper. A flying bird, a seagull maybe? And one of a girl, hair tied back and her hands folded neatly against her chest, like she was reciting a Hail Mary.

Daryl wondered where the colors were, the dogs and horses, the rays of sunshine and happy people. But he figured Sophia was getting older and she wasn't dumb; this place was tough. It wasn't sunny and light-hearted. She must have decided to start accepting it for what it was, as much as it broke his heart some to think of that. She was thirteen, after all.

That was a few years ago.

These days, Daryl keeps himself busy with a few things. He works on cars and such to make a few bucks, but his main focus is on hunting down scumbags. The city is littered with them and in a way, he thinks maybe it was his calling, to try and scrub this place clean as best he could. He didn't take any lives but he got people to talk and some of them he could have shaking in their boots.

He isn't the law but there wasn't much law to rely on these days anyhow. He knows a few lawmen, one of them is good; maybe he isn't all good to his core, Daryl didn't know for sure, but no one seemed to be around here. Himself included. Daryl works with him sometimes, Grimes is his name, funnily enough. Daryl likes to muse that he sucks up the muck and shit himself and internalizes it, leaving the city just a shade lighter, but himself heavier. Darker. And that's why he's called that. Grimes.

Rick Grimes has a few kids and it surprises Daryl to learn that his boy is friends with the Peletier girl. Carl is shaggy-haired and full of attitude; he snaps at his dad regularly, publicly, and while Daryl can't judge the situation completely because he has no idea what the home life is like, Grimes doesn't strike him as the shit for a father type. But that's just teenagers, he reckons.

Carl has a few run-ins of his own, stupid stuff like swiping food from local shops and breaking curfew. All kids rebel in some way, Daryl thinks; he just hopes Carl doesn't toe too far over that line because he knows how messy it can get. His own blood had done the same.

Rick's wife passed a few years ago, giving birth to his youngest. Judith's two or so, all smiles and grabby hands. Daryl finds her joy to be infectious, which is weird for him. While he never fancied himself the type good with kids, he sure has a soft spot for her whenever Grimes has her around the station.

Daryl doesn't work there, not even close, but he likes being around the guy. They make a good team.

Sometimes the two share information and names. And why did Daryl trust him, how did Daryl know he was at least somewhat good? Because he heard Grimes talk about Ed once, about what happened to the bastard years back when someone beat the shit out of him. He never paid for the murder of his wife but that was something at least. "Someone had to put him in his place," Rick had said. That was that.

Rick introduces him to a few other guys in uniform but the one that always seems to be lingering around is his partner, Walsh. The guy's a prick, plain and simple, and Daryl's not too fond of him. He's crooked in one way or another, you can smell it on him a mile away. Grimes has to know too but he's keeping it quiet for some reason. Maybe he's onto something bigger and doesn't wanna screw the pooch. Daryl doesn't pry; the two men have history and he's not about to go digging in their past. That's their deal.

Things at the station are steady, there's a routine. The guys in uniform get a call, murder or muggings mostly, sometimes a domestic dispute. They go to the scene and Daryl patrols in his own way for information. Talks with barkeeps, follows guys down dimly lit streets. He doesn't hurt anyone, he just spooks them a bit. He's good at that, he supposes. It's mainly little stuff that's snuffed out quickly but things have been different lately. Arson and property damage, mainly to sketchy establishments throughout the city, the kind normal folk usually avoid. An ancient, out of commission warehouse gets hit one day and a week later, some dodgy bar known for dealing hard drugs to neighborhood locals. Daryl hears whispers about them both, how they're linked. Someone trying to run out their competition for peddling stuff. People keep bringing up one man in particular, Hershel Greene, and his whole family.

There's a lot of things said about the Greenes and Daryl knows most of it is probably horseshit. Some things are just facts though. Hershel had a temper about him and got in more than a few scuffles back in the day, before he all but disappeared from the public eye. He wound up behind bars a handful of times and must've had some enemies; the way people talk about him and his family, that seemed more than likely.

Maggie has a rap sheet of her own, breaking curfew all the time as a kid and political protests and stir-ups once she was older. Shawn was a con man of sorts, he hustled cards and pool and blew through the cash in no time. He supposedly hawked a few pieces of his late mother's jewelry to feed his gambling itch. So they say. They say a lot of shit. Daryl doesn't know if he buys most of it; the Greenes are modern folklore in this city.

Back in his drinking days, Hershel didn't talk much about his family. When he had, it was mostly vague but positive things, as one would hope from any decent father. Maggie's conviction and Shawn's wit. He mentioned another child of his, a few times (again, so they say). Beth. Some speculated she died young and that's why Hershel drank. Some thought she was just plain made up. And others thought she was stowed away somewhere, locked away in her bedroom because Hershel saw what this place did to his two oldest kids. But the way he supposedly talked about her, this Beth, most of that seemed to be a stretch. If Daryl had to believe anything, he assumed she was long gone. He never saw her, no mugshot like her father, newspaper clipping like her sister, or headhunter poster like for her brother.

Yet people still talked about her, more than any other Greene. _Beth Greene_ , they'd whisper, like she was some other worldly creature. They claimed she was the good one in that family, genuinely so. She was the only one with no skeletons in her closet. But how the hell did they think they knew that when no one had ever even seen the girl? Some claimed to have, the stories passed along like fairytales of how she was there one second and gone the next, and the narrator was just blessed for being in her presence. They raved about her shiny blonde hair and bright eyes, that she sang songs with the voice of an angel like it moved grown men to cry.

It was all ridiculous to Daryl. But she was a symbol, a beacon of hope or a better future or whatever people in this place needed to get through another miserable day. And if that was the case, Daryl was okay with it. Let them spread their tales and muse about this mysterious girl. They even began tagging all over the city in her honor, portraits of a blonde girl, always faceless. Praying or singing or holding outreached hands, as if she's the Messiah or something.

They talk about her and the paintings down at the station sometimes, not to Daryl, but he's got good ears and picks up on a lot he's not supposed to.

"So we're just not gonna try at all to catch these punks?" Walsh spits out one day, stance cocked and angry hand glued to his hip. Daryl's leaning against the back wall, filling out some report for Rick about a rowdy group of guys he found fighting and broke up last night.

"We have some bigger issues on our plate, don't you think?" Grimes tries to reason with him. And he was right. They were hot on the tail of one of the city's newest names in the underground, some ass named Gareth. The stuff Daryl has heard about him has been pretty damn disturbing.

"It's still illegal! People can't just go around vandalizing, doing whatever they want. And we're letting them do whatever the hell they want!"

"Why are you so uptight about this, Shane?" Before Walsh can answer, Grimes' boy, Carl, comes stomping into the room. He plops down at the chair by his father's desk and tosses his large, overly packed backpack onto the floor. "Thought I asked you to pick up your sister and head home today?"

The two get into a bit of an argument, Rick's voice hushed like he doesn't want anyone to hear his obvious struggles of raising a teenaged boy on his own. Carl's just the opposite, all puffy-chest and booming words. People amongst the station go back to their respective tasks. Openly watching Grimes and Walsh go at it is one thing, but everyone there respects Rick too much to ogle at him fighting with his son, Daryl included. He's watching Walsh, rubbing his head like he's trying to polish it up till it sparkles.

"What're you looking at?" he spits at Daryl, feeling his eyes. He doesn't reply and the officer advances towards him. "You know, I always wondered why do you wear this thing. Some kind of joke?" Walsh picks at the open flap of Daryl's vest and gets his hand shoved away, quickly. "You think you're a saint or something? Wannabe cop saving people?"

The angel wing vest used to belong to his brother, before Merle up and disappeared on him. That happened a lot, all through his childhood and earlier years. Merle was always the one getting in trouble and part of Daryl was thankful when he vanished the last time. Must've been nearly two years since he had seen him last. Maybe he was dead, maybe he was on the other side of the country. All he left behind was some stash that Daryl flushed and a few belongings, the vest included. Daryl just liked the damn thing for some reason.

"You're not one of us. You got no right hanging around here all the time like you are, Dixon." Walsh stressed his last name like it was a curse and maybe it was to some people. It did hang around his neck like a ball and chain sometimes.

Hershel Greene's name comes up again one day and Daryl was never too privy to the details, but Walsh and Grimes go out that night and the next morning, the air's heavy. It's all over the news: one of Greene's well known comrades, Otis, dead. Suicide by cop, so they say. Walsh talks about it so vividly back at the station, like it's an epic tale of him taking down a stag in the heart of hunting season. Grimes looks nearly sick to his stomach and that's when Daryl knows something ain't right. But it isn't his place to question, not just yet.

He hits up the crime scene across town, an alley between a speakeasy and some rundown women's home. It's taped off but nobody's there, there isn't much for them to investigate in their minds; the guy brought it upon himself, it was his choice, and if he was one of Greene's guys, well, they believed the streets were a little bit cleaner.

There are still some remnants of footprints and blood splatter, glossy like paint from the bitter cold; he studies them, mapping out the exchange in his head, the angles and placement, how it could have happened. He's so caught up in his head that he doesn't see her just on the other side of the dumpster. It starts sleeting though, as if on cue, and he hears her let out a small sigh.

"Who're you?" he asks, his voice gruff but loud enough to let her know he means business. He doesn't have any authority here but maybe she doesn't know that. Daryl wishes he had thrown on a jacket over his vest; might've made him look more like someone of importance.

She eyes him for a second, as if she's contemplating lying. But by the way pink spreads through her cheeks, he figures she's inclined to tell the truth. "A friend of mine was killed here last night."

"Who are you?" he repeats, his voice colder. She doesn't seem to acknowledge it though.

"My name's Beth."

His eyes focus and adjust on her and no, it can't be, because he was so sure that she didn't really exist. Maybe the girl was lying but something in his gut told him it really was her. Otis was a friend to that family. She really was Beth Greene.

She's not at all what he had imagined, in the few moments where he humored the idea that she was real. He always pictured her as a young girl, ribbons in her hair and knobby knees, pleated skirt with her shirt all nearly tucked in. But she's hardly a kid, she's all grown; lean like her sister and hair full and shining blonde, a clean sight against such a dingy backdrop. Just like the people gossiped about. His eyes scan over her, up and down, and he has to pull out a cigarette, his shoulders hunching forward as he shields the flame from the wind and drizzle.

He watches her push back her damp hair. "You're not a cop."

"Naw," he admits, voice low. She doesn't inquire further but she steps closer and the light from a flashing neon sign above them hits her face for just a moment, glowing orange and pale and so damn beautiful. It's a shame a girl like that is stuck in an ugly place like this.

He smokes in silence and stares at her even though his chin is tucked down. She hardly pays him any mind and he notices the way the snowy, wet slush is matting her hair. The slightest shiver shakes through her body.

"You should get outta here," he tells her, but she cuts him off at the last syllable.

"You're barking up the wrong tree." And with that, she's trudging towards the street, droplets of water flying off the end of her coat and damp, shiny hair fluttering in the wind.

"What'd you mean by that?"

"My family isn't the problem. Everyone in this place seems to think that." He catches a good view of her face then, illuminated with the halo of a street lamp looming over the crown of her head.

She cuts across the street and disappears around the corner; he'd chase after her if his feet weren't encased in cement blocks.

He can't believe he's actually met her.

"You ain't gonna believe who I ran into," Daryl tells Grimes, who's trying to feed a reluctant Judith himself. She swats at his hands every time he brings the spoon near her mouth. It's almost comical and if Daryl ever really laughed, he would have then.

"Who?"

Before he can answer, there's a call coming in over the radio and the station is up and about in all kinds of commotion. Daryl winds up with a baby in his rocking arms and he wonders if by the time she's old enough to buy cigarettes, if this hellhole will be any better. Hopefully not any worse.

Rick looks like he's all set to bust out when he catches sight of Daryl cradling his daughter. The toddler reaches for some discarded cereal on her father's desk; she pinches a piece and feeds herself, much calmer than she was before. Rick scrubs a hand over his face and Daryl wonders if he should offer to look after her. He wouldn't mind, but they aren't really close like that. As well as they worked together, this was so much more personal and he didn't want to cross something he shouldn't.

"Carl should have been here by now..."

"I can stay with her, till he comes." The look on the sheriff's face is solemn but there's a glint of something in his eye that Daryl catches. Gratitude or appreciation, maybe. It's unfamiliar to him.

The station clears out and Daryl picks up pieces of conversations. On the lower west side of town, a slummy housing development was lit up. It reeks of foul play and everyone assumes that it has to be connected to the warehouse and bar fires. A few mid-rank dealers were killed in the blaze which brought on more Greene talk. It's nonsense. What would an old guy like Hershel have to do with the drug world? He hardly struck Daryl as some underground drug lord and his family is in such a public eye position with the people of this city, they wouldn't be able to get away with anything. Except maybe Beth.

Daryl can't shake the girl from his mind. The timbre of her voice, her damn pretty face. The way in which she didn't seem scared or put off by him in the slightest. He thinks on her the entire walk home and he finds himself peeking down alleys and glancing into windows, some messed up part of him hoping he'll stumble upon her. He doesn't and once he's inside his dark apartment, a weight settles on his shoulders. Sophia isn't anywhere to be found and he's glad to be alone for the time being.

The blinds are almost always drawn; he likes his privacy and there isn't anything worth looking at out there anyway. But something has him yanking the cord and letting the crass urban lights seep into his bedroom. His eyes flutter under the harshness and he wonders if he's seeing things but no, he isn't.

Just across the street, near kitty-corner, there's an abandoned brick-faced building. Kids sometimes get busted hanging in there, drinking and fooling around, but it's pretty much forgotten about. It's unremarkable. Except now, just above the line of the roof next door, the wall dons a painting about two stories high. It's a woman, bright yellow hair tied up and back, her face obscure but her hands grasping a burning white candle. There's a faint outline of some lettering around the curve of her head, but it looks like whoever was working on the piece split before they could finish. He knows it's supposed to be her. It's odd, he thinks, how he has such a perfect view of it. Daryl wonders where she is right then.

His phone rings and when he reads Grimes on the screen, he knows it must be something important.

"Daryl." Rick sounds tense and he can hear all kinds of discord and bustle in the background.

"Yeah?"

"When's the last time you've seen Merle?"


	2. bow your heads and take your hands

**A/N: Thank you for reading and for all your lovely comments! It really means the world to me reading them.**

 **This bit was longer than intended so I had to split it up; hopefully you enjoy it!**

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"Merle dead?"

It's the first thing that came to his mind when he got Rick's call. It was bound to happen sometime, right? Hell, he really thought it might've already. But Grimes just looks at him a bit dejectedly and that's when he hears it.

"Darylina!"

Daryl's blood goes cold and face hot all at once. Sure enough, there's his brother, alive and well. They got him sitting at a table in an interrogation room but Walsh slams the door shut before he can say anything else to his brother. Shane eyes Daryl through the window before drawing the blinds.

"No, he's not quite dead."

Grimes catches him up to speed, says they found Merle a few blocks from the housing development and they got reason to believe he's behind it. Didn't even bother dumping his supplies; maybe he wanted to get caught, in some messed up sort of way. Anyway, Merle's just a small fish to them (a lippy, obnoxious fish). They want to bait him to catch the big kahuna.

"I don't think this has anything to do with the Greenes," Daryl admits, peering at the window of the room holding his brother and Walsh. He wonders if Merle's yapped enough to make Shane swing at him; he wouldn't be too surprised if he had.

"Me either." The admission surprises him. It seems like everyone was on a witch hunt for Hershel Greene but Rick was a smart guy, one of the only ones left it felt like, sometimes. "But it'd help if we could talk to him. We could put some things to rest."

Daryl wonders if he could talk to Beth, if he ever sees her again that is. But maybe if he did, he could convince her to have a chat with her dad. Maybe help clear everything up once and for all. Maybe wipe their family name clean some.

Shane emerges from the interrogation room, shutting the door behind him. There's a sour look on his face and Daryl's about to ask if he can talk to his brother when Grimes all but reads his mind.

"You can go on and see him."

Damn, Merle had gotten old. His face looks more ragged than he remembered and he clearly hasn't shaved (or probably showered) in a few days. His shirt sticks to him in an unnatural way and Daryl has a vision of him crashing under a bridge on the outskirts of the city, like a lot of the homeless folk do.

Gently closing the door, Daryl moves around the table and takes a seat across from him. Merle's hands are cuffed to the tabletop; it's not the first time Daryl's seen his brother like this and probably won't be the last.

"Baby brother, you here to bail me out?" Daryl would have laughed but Merle's own chuckle took over the air. "Naw, I suppose you're too cozy with Officer Friendly and gang now. They treatin' you good here? Got a nice shiny badge?"

"Who ya workin' with now, Merle?" The older Dixon grins, widely and in a way that Daryl knows not to trust at all.

"You know what everyone's sayin'."

"Hm?"

"You know."

He's not in the mood for games, not now. "Dammit Merle, you killed some people today!"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a knot! Just some no good junkies."

"They were still people. You ain't a murderer."

"Ain't there a sayin', 'you are what you do'? I am what I am. And you're a pig. Cops and robbers, little brother. Like when we were kids." Merle lifts his hands up as high as he can, a few inches at most, his fingers curled back to form a gun like he's about to shoot his brother. Daryl's stomach flips and he remembers how Merle shoved him in the closet when their dad would come home drunk. Not just drunk, but _angry_ drunk. Daryl would hide under their late mother's coat, breathing in the faint lingering stench of cigarettes, waiting for the cursing and screaming and crashing of furniture to end. Merle looked out for him back then.

"You can end this right now."

"Can't. Not till I get my cut for my hours punched." Daryl's jaw tightens and Merle's loosens. "A man's gotta eat."

"Who's writing the check then? I know it ain't Greene, so don't feed me that shit." Merle drums his fingers on the metal of the tabletop, a steady beat.

"You'll never guess who I saw the other night." Daryl is about to lash out again but what his brother says next catches him off guard. "That Greene girl, the blonde one."

"Bullshit," he spits out on impulse. It might not have been a lie though; hell, he'd run into her not too long ago. But how would Merle have known it was really her?

"She was singing at a club down in Old Town, one of those seedy joints, with the back private rooms? Thought she might have been hookin' first, but naw. Tried to hide under a wig or something too, long dark hair." A weird noise escapes the back of Daryl's throat, almost a laugh.

"You're so full of shit."

"I ain't." Merle's face is serious, his eyes lit up like he's talking about the most exciting thing in the world. It makes Daryl sit up a bit straighter. "Saw her cut out the back door just before closing time. Blonde hair then. Waiting by herself till she got into a car being driven by that Chinese kid her sister's married to."

Daryl can picture the guy's face and knows the deal with him; some lower class schmuck that somehow married in the most notorious family in the region. Gary, was it? Greg?

"Had a sweet voice, blondie. Wonder what a girl like that was doing at a place like that all by her lonesome." Daryl silently wonders too, if it really was her after all.

When he emerges from the room, he's lost when Rick asks him if he got anything information. It takes him a moment to stop thinking about Beth.

"He mentioned Greene but it's crap. He always liked makin' up stories."

It's late and all he wants to do is crash for the night. But before he can leave, Grimes stops him.

"We appreciate all the help you provide, Daryl."

"We?" His eyes drift to Shane who's laying into someone on the phone and Rick follows his gaze.

"Well, nearly everyone here does. You've helped us with a lot of shit and you don't have to." Daryl shrugs, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable. "It's dirty and dangerous and all. I trust you more than most. And you should be able to protect yourself." Where is this going?

"I can protect myself."

When Rick hands him a gun, coyly but still out in the open, he's more confused than ever.

"Don't think you're supposed to be givin' weapons to common folk, Sheriff." Daryl grips the gun anyway, the cool metal almost hot in his hand, scalding his skin. He's never used a gun before; he's always just relied on his surly reputation and fists, when needed. He inspects it briefly before meeting Grimes' eyes.

"Well, they say there isn't a clean cop in this city. Just living up to standard." He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Daryl thinks maybe the two of them could be actual friends one day. Play cards, drink beer. Maybe, just maybe. If this town ever really cleans up at all.

For now, there aren't many off days.

It's not a big deal but it has Daryl curious enough that he starts mapping out the locations of murals and paintings that pop up, at least the ones specific to Beth. There's more than he had realized, at least a dozen in the spread of the city that he's thoroughly explored. And there doesn't appear to be an evident rhyme or reason to their locations either. But he's not concerned with finding out who's behind them, not like Walsh is. They just fascinate him. They must have piqued her interest too, because he stumbles upon the girl one day, while heading to the garage for his actual job.

It's a bit like a dream but Beth is there, real as day, her hair slicked back in a ponytail and arms wrapped around her stomach like she's freezing. He studies her for a moment as she stares up at the brick wall before her, tucked away from open view. There's a painting across the bumpy and broken surface, a drawing of her. Well, at least in her likeness. The word FAITH curves around the painted blonde girl's hands, folded up in what could be prayer.

"Why do they do this?" she asks aloud, her voice barely carrying down the alley to him. He shouldn't be amazed that she knows he is there and he figures he shouldn't underestimate her. She's observant. "Why do they put this stuff up all over?"

"Reminders, I guess."

"Of what?"

"That there's hope for something better." Beth nods slowly, as if trying to digest the meaning in what he explains

"I don't understand why they use me though, Daryl. They don't know me. People say my whole family is awful. I could be just as bad as anyone else in this city." He's not sure how she knows his name and his shoulders square at the thought of what else she might know about him. Beth looks over at him then.

"But you ain't," Daryl states, like he knows her so well. They're probably just fooling each other though, bluffing. Neither knows nothing. But for whatever reason, his gut still screams at him that she is good in one way or another. Worth defending. Maybe he is buying into the folklore now, brainwashed by the hope that this place hadn't all gone to hell. By the rocking on her heels, he assumes she's still unsure about it herself.

"You don't know that either. I'm not a saint like they make me out to be."

"You don't have to be. You tellin' me you're as bad as the trash that crawls all over this place?" She doesn't answer him, not directly.

"If anything, you're the saint. People like you, you and Sheriff Grimes. At least you're doing something good." His body stiffens even more.

Daryl's not too strong with words sometimes; putting his thoughts and feelings into something she can understand is challenging and by the time he's finally thought of anything to say, to try and comfort her or dismiss her claims or at least explain why he thinks she's important, she's already at it again herself.

"I don't know who people think I am. I wanna give them hope, if I can, but I don't wanna let anyone down. Because I'm not who they think I am, who they make me out to be. I'm not this." Her eyes travel back to the painting.

"You ain't lettin' anyone down," he tells her, watching as her eyes slide upwards towards the pitch black sky and her jaw relaxes. He knows that trick, he used it all the time as a kid. Couldn't let his old man see him in tears and the simplest movement like that helped them subside. "Nobody looks at me and sees good stuff. They don't see a brighter future. They see some asshole who beats the shit outta people. They see a rat, a narc. What you represent to them, that matters. Optimism and all that. The thought of you helps people want something better."

Beth smiles at him, the kind that actually reaches her eyes and he's drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He doesn't know if he should trust her, not fully, but damn if she doesn't overtake him. He wonders how warm she is to touch and he doesn't think twice as he reaches out and his filthy hand, mud caked under the nails and hard calloused, slides up her forearm, around her elbow. He doesn't know why but she grabs him then and he wonders if he's hallucinating because she steps in towards him all on her own and presses herself to his chest.

They stand there for only a few moments (or maybe it was hours; too short either way) before the sudden wailing of sirens fills the air around them and she tenses, pulling away from his embrace.

"You should get out of here," Beth tells him and he wants to laugh because isn't that what he should be telling her? An ambulance rushes by and it splashes murky, grey slush towards them.

He leaves her and once he's a few blocks away, he wishes he hadn't because there's still so much he wants to learn and find out about her. It dawns on him that he can't remember the last time he's been hugged, let alone touched like that. The moment's almost like a dream he'd drunkenly ramble about at a bar, how he stumbled upon the radiant Beth Greene and how her touch seemed to lighten his conscience and cause his heart to swell. A real unbelievable tale to be passed on and enhanced from mouth to ear to mouth.

"Don't you draw anymore?"

It's one of those rare nights where he and Sophia are both awake; he's teaching her cards, simple five card draw. The girl shrugs, her eyes glued to her hand, starring so intently like maybe the suits and numbers will change under her gaze.

"You don't draw no more then."

"I do, sometimes."

"Hm."

"Why didn't you ever try to adopt me?" It's a bomb and he's not expecting it, at all. Sure, the thought had crossed his mind years ago, once or twice. He would've loved getting her out of her old man's place for good but that's not really how things worked anymore. It would have been a nearly impossible case to plead and God knows Ed would've come after both of them anyway.

"I ain't much the fatherin' type, you know that." Sophia's staring at him now, intensely; maybe he'll spontaneously combust if she keeps it up.

"That's crap, I've seen you with Judith. You'd be better than most." Her words cut into his gut and he sets his cards down before scrubbing a hand over his face. Idiotically, he racks over how many times her old man must've spat at her or hit her. It makes his blood boil and he has to push the thought away, because what can he do now? He could do something, he supposes.

"Could still try, if that's what you wanted."

"It's not what you want..."

"That ain't true," Daryl interjects, starting to get a bit heated. The girl can tell and she softens her gaze, shoulders sinking a bit.

"There's no point, I practically live here already anyway. And my dad... that's a useless battle. They wouldn't let you take custody of me." Never lacked in the smarts department, this girl.

"You are my kin, you know that? We're family no matter what." She smiles at him and he can't help but return it just a little bit. Her mother was a dear friend of his and he was glad Sophia had a bit of her bite. She'd need it as she grew older.

He notices then her hand of cards tilted forward, enough so that he can read them all. Reaching out, he pushes them upright and slides back into his serious tone.

"Can't go flashin' your hand to your opponent like that. C'mon, kid."

New Year's Day comes and go. Rick tells him the body count of the past year and it leaves a weight in Daryl's stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. The number's been on the rise and what have they done about it? What good have they done in trying to hinder it? It only takes a few days for the first numbers of the fresh year to rack up.

Another fire, this time a women's home. It's bad and gruesome and so disheartening. There's three causalities and a slew of others injured. It doesn't make any sense though, it doesn't fit the pattern. This place wasn't known for anything dirty or drug-related. If anything, it was one of the gleaming spots of the city, a sacred place of sorts. It was a haven for so many women and children and everyone respected that. Until now.

The sun doesn't make an appearance at all that day and Daryl finds it fitting.

There's still looming smoke and most of the place has been cleared out, moved to some other shelters across town. There's a few stragglers though lining the street, watching in horror and heartache, some in anger. Grimes says he knows one of the women who was staying there for the time being and he's off to the side talking with her, showing her pictures of Hershel and Merle and other shit stains wandering the city. Walsh is off strolling the perimeter and Daryl, well he's sniffing around inside the place even though he shouldn't be. Nobody appears to mind though.

The fire seems to have originated in the far east corner of the building, furthest from the street. The room holds a few beds, it's where two of the victims were that didn't make it. There's nothing to leave him believing it was electrical or anything but intentional, not that he's an expert in that kind of field. It just doesn't look right. Why would someone target a place like this though? Unless it was personal, unless they were targeting _someone_.

Grimes pops in a few minutes later and he looks worn down.

"When's the last time you slept, Sheriff?" Rick ignores him as he surveys the room but Daryl doesn't think he's looking for anything in particular. Just processing something in his mind.

"Michonne was staying in this room. But she wasn't around when the blaze started."

"She the one you were talkin' to?" Grimes nods, stopping in front of the charred window frame, his boots crunching along the blackened ground and tiny shards of glass. There's a stifling scorched smell in the air and Daryl tries to hold his breath.

"She recognized Merle-"

"Merle's locked away." He doesn't mean to defend his brother, he knows the crap Merle has pulled in the past and that he's guilty of some heavy shit, but it just comes out. Daryl receives a pointed look and he holds his tongue to let the cop finish.

"She had a few run-ins with a guy a while back, said Merle was one of his cronies."

"Who?"

"He goes by The Governor."

Daryl's heard of the guy in passing, though nothing too detailed. But that didn't mean there wasn't anything to find out. And if Merle didn't want to help them out, he'd look elsewhere for information.

He gets a few snippets from his regular squealers: the guy's real name is Philip and he was an average joe for a while, until he lost his wife and later on his daughter, and finally he went off the deep end. Quit his steady job (which weren't that easy to come by these days) and disappeared for the most part. Much like Hershel Greene had.

That's all people really had to say about him, nothing accusatory or too alarming. The only really notable thing that came up was his scuffle with some woman a few months back; the guy ended up losing an eye. Daryl wonders how that would have transpired.

He's conversing with a bartender one night, a guy who says he knows of Philip through a friend. Claims he's certain the guy really did lose an eye and wears a patch like he's a modern day pirate or something. It's almost comical and Daryl's about to crack a straight-faced joke when a broad-shouldered man a few seats down chimes in.

"Why are you asking about the Governor, roughneck?" Daryl doesn't catch that he's being addressed at first because the nickname is ill-fitting. But the guy is smugly smirking at him and he knows then to slip into defensive mode.

"Just heard some things is all." The mystery man nods a few times and finishes off his beer in a couple of large gulps before sliding the glass away. "Why? You got something to add?"

"Well, what do you want to know? You looking for something in particular?" Daryl turns in his seat to stand and the man makes a clucking sound with his tongue. "I thought you reminded me of someone."

For one reason or another, Daryl freezes; he doesn't have much of anything to hide, but the words spook him none the less. And the stranger seems to be able to tell.

"A friend of mine used to have a vest just like that. Used to talk about his little brother sometimes too. You two sure are cut from the same cloth." Of course this guy knows Merle, because why wouldn't he? Daryl sits back down, slowly.

"How you know Merle?" The man shrugs.

"Work together sometimes. Till he got locked away, that is. Heard his kin might've had something to do with that." Daryl tries to relax, releasing his hands from the fists they formed. The guy's trying to get under his skin, he knows that. But it's working still. "Though I can't say I'm surprised, with all the shit I've heard about the Dixon clan. Daddy Dixon loved the hard stuff and beating the shit out of his boys. And your ma..."

It just happens and he doesn't realize he should stop until his arm is already swinging forward, arching in slow motion till it collides with the side of the jackass's jaw. And then it's just a full on brawl.

By the time anyone in uniform arrives, Daryl's bleeding pretty good. His nose isn't broken so that's a plus, but his lip is swollen and there's a good gash above his left eyebrow. Eye is pretty sore too when he tries to keep it open.

Grimes shows up and part of him feels like a kid about to get scolded, but Rick says nothing. He does have to take Daryl in, this time not just as a confidant. Daryl behaves himself.

They're at the station and Rick is filling out some kind of paperwork while Daryl squirms in his seat, trying to peer in the closed off room holding the man from the bar.

"You get a name out of him?" he inquires and Grimes arches an eyebrow at him.

"Maybe you should have asked that yourself before you started swinging." Daryl all but scoffs. "Martinez. He's got a record and we've been looking for him, so lucky you."

"He knows Merle. They both work for the Governor." That seems to catch the Sheriff's attention and he leans back in his chair.

"He tell you that?"

"They just are the type of guys Merle would be workin' with." Shane emerges from the room holding Martinez and he looks less ornery than normal. In fact, he almost looks pleased with himself.

"I think's it's about high time we got Hershel Greene down here," Walsh tells them, or rather Rick, but Daryl inserts himself into the conversation by listening.

"Is that really the name he gave you?" Grimes asks, clearly unamused. There's a hard line across his forehead once Shane nods. "We should get him down here, if for nothing more than to clear some things up."

"He's at the center of this, Rick."

"We don't know that."

"His name is always the one coming up!"

"That don't mean nothin'," Daryl interjects and Walsh tosses him a hard look.

"Suppose your big, bad eye-patched schmuck is the head of the snake, then?" There's a silence because Daryl's not in mood to bicker. He just glowers for the moment and Rick sighs, sounding somewhat exasperated.

"We get Hershel to come down, we'll get answers for something."

"I'll find him." Both officers turn to Daryl then, Shane almost entertained and Rick confused. But Daryl knows out of any of them, he has the best chance of finding the man... if he can find Beth again first.

It takes a couple of weeks, but he finally manages to hunt her down. He did some broad surveying for a while, lots of wandering at night with no real destination in mind because hell if he knew where she might be. He'd only seen the girl in alleyways and those were a dime a dozen. But he recalls what Merle had told him, where the older Dixon had supposedly seen her. And damn him, he must've been telling the truth because Daryl does finally find her one night down in Old Town.

He wouldn't have recognized her on stage if he hadn't been consciously looking for her. Her hair is pulled back tight, wadded up in a knot against the back of her head, and it's dark, just like Merle had told him. She isn't dressed how Daryl's seen her before either. She looks like she fits in here, her legs long and exposed, her eyes rimmed in dark charcoal and her lips painted an unnatural red. She looks much older than she actually is.

But her voice... her voice, that trumps everything. It's like nothing he's ever heard; it's doesn't resemble the smokey, deep bellows of most of the women who take the stage at places like this. It's sweeter and airy and when she hits certain notes, his arms break out in goosebumps. Everyone in the place seems transfixed by her, so much so that they can't look past her make-up or sparkling dress to see who she actually is. Beth Greene is fucking serenading them and they are none the wiser. And that's how she must like it.

It's not hard to find his way to the back; there's a few teenagers snorting something in an out of commission bathroom and there's a couple arguing, cursing and screaming at each other in the hallway. The man gets shoved into his shoulder but Daryl keeps walking past all the other locked doors concealing moans and cries and other noises that he tries to block out.

There's a half-cracked door at the end of the furthest hall and he curiously peers in, catching the back of her head. She lets down her dark hair and it tumbles across her shoulders like ocean waves. She's out of that glittery number, clan in a too big shirt and dark pants now. It's mesmerizing how she wipes her face clean, streaks of mascara and lipstick smeared until she's fresh faced again. Daryl wants to look away, to give her privacy, but it just isn't in him right now.

It isn't until she's at the sink, hunched over and washing the brunette dye from her hair, that he finally steps into the room. No greeting or knock or anything, just a click of the door shutting behind him.

"You recognized me." It's not a question but an observation; she doesn't seem upset, which is a relief to him. Droplets of water hang from strands of her hair and they fly off with every flick of her chin. He's reminded of the first night he saw her: freezing rain and dim street lighting. Flashing neon. He was glad to see the crass, dirty brown water drain from her hair; he enjoyed her blonde, for whatever reason. Swirls of the stuff funnel down the drain. "You were able to track me down?" He nods.

"Came here to ask a favor of you," he informs her. As much as he would like to fully take in the moment, the reason for his finding her stood. "You heard of The Governor?" Beth's body goes taut, wringing her hair in a dingy towel.

"Everyone has."

"A few of his henchmen have been brought down to the station the past few months." Daryl neglects to mention one of them was his brother, who had seen her in the flesh before too. "They kept bringin' up your dad. Knew some stuff that ain't common knowledge or hearsay."

"Like what?"

"Talked about you for one, that you were performin' at sketchy clubs in Old Town. Like here." She stills, the faucet still gushing water. "And said your family was behind the the women's home arson last week, other arsons too. Said they had witnesses, proof."

"Bullshit." Her language startles him but just for a moment because he's caught up in watching her towel off her hair, streaks of dye stretching down behind her ears and all along her neck. He wants to rub them away, circles of his thumb along her pale skin till it disappears and she's all clean. "Why would we do that? That doesn't make any sense."

"Some say your dad's trying to drive out competition-"

"Did you come here to accuse me and my family of something?" She's lit up now, her eyes blazing and pink filling her cheeks. It's not what he was anticipating, especially when she steps in close to him, toe to toe. "My family has none nothing but try to help the people of this city."

"Rein it in, lady. I don't think you and yours had anything to do with it." Daryl meets her gaze, strong and sure; that's nothing new for him, he's always been known as the intimidating one. But she doesn't seem ruffled by him and there's an unusual clenching in his chest at that realization. "But it'd sure be useful if your dad came down and spoke with folks at the station."

"So they can frame him? Twist his words? They won't help us at all." The woman has a point, he can't find fault in her distrust of the law. It's wise to distrust just about everyone.

"There's still some good ones."

"Who? Rick?" Beth pulls her hair up and ties it off, still damp but more like it's natural blonde hue. "He's just one man. Everyone is against my family."

"People listen to him and he wants to get this sorted out. He'll help your dad." There's a long pause and she's watching him closely, like a hawk, leaning against the back of a chair. Daryl can't help but shift under her scrutiny.

"Why do you care? You aren't a cop." Beth tilts her head to the side. "Everyone hates my family but you act like you're trying to help us."

"I am." Really he's just trying to get the truth out, but by helping the Greenes, he reckons that's what he is doing too.

Beth steps towards him again, her face softer than before. Her eyes roam over his shoulders and she steps to his side, peering around his back and he turns away from her out of instinct.

"They talk about you too." Her voice is quiet, nearly a whisper, like she's sharing a secret with him. He silently sucks in a breath and she picks up on it. "Good things. Like how you put away Martinez and even your own brother. People have noticed that, they've noticed you."

"I didn't turn in my brother," he growls, feeling that familiar rage boil in his veins. "Snitchin' on your blood ain't honorable anyway." Beth nods her head once and she's very close to him suddenly, closer than he realized. A subtle, sweet smell hits his nostrils and he wonders if it's her or just his mind making things up.

"Still, you're one of the good ones." Daryl's about to object but he feels her palms press to his back, sliding over the stitching on his vest. He freezes under the touch, not sure if he should shove her away or relax into it or grab onto her himself. And just like that, her touch is gone. Beth heaves a sigh. "I should cut back on this stuff now, since they know about me." He glances over his shoulder at her and sees a sad smile twitch on her lips. "Singing's just nice, you know? It's a nice escape."

Daryl doesn't sing but he gets it. Everyone deserves an out from this reality once in a while. The last time he remembers feeling something like that was weeks ago, when he held her, just for a brief moment. He clears his throat.

"I'll talk to my daddy." She's grabbing a bag then, tossing it over her shoulder and he imagines she's heading out the back to wait for her brother-in-law. If Merle had been right about all this, he was probably telling the truth about that.

"How'd you know my name? Before," he questions before she can make her way to the door. There's a look in her eye, like she's smiling without moving her lips at all.

"The same way you knew who I was when I told you mine." It doesn't make much sense to him, because he recognized her based on stories and gossip. He doesn't think on it too much though because she's all up close on him again and in a slow, chaste sort of way presses her mouth to his. It's brief enough that he can't fully react in the moment before she's slipping through the door and he's left alone, the rhythmic pounding of the headboard next door filling the room, accompanied by bedspring groans and breathless gasps.

She's nowhere to be seen by the time he makes his way outside and he figures that to be fitting.


	3. you are angels of the night

**A/N: I'm pretty sure there will be only one more part after this; I have loved writing this piece and I'm not sure why, but it's been a lot of fun.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It's not like Sophia, he thinks, to just up and disappear without so much as a peep. She always made her way around his place at least a few times a week and he hadn't heard a word from her or seen her face in nearly two weeks. The girl is resilient but Daryl knows Ed, he knows what most of the people in this town are capable of, and while she isn't technically his responsibility, he cares for her. Looking out for her is the least he can do for her mother, too.

He knows a few places she hangs around sometimes but there's no sight of her. Winter seems to be on its way out by the way the days are less bitterly cold and he only sees puffs of grey from his smoking, not his breath.

Carl's hanging around outside the station one day, picking at a piece of the broken fence that lines the lot next door. Daryl can't tell if he's trying to fix it or tear off a chunk of the chain link, but he doesn't think he'll be able to do much with just his bare hands.

"Hey kid," he calls out, pulling his cigarettes from the inner pocket of his jacket, flattening the front of his vest after he lights one up.

"Hey." Not looking up, the boy begins twists a piece of the fence back and forth, maybe in attempt to snap a part of it off. It makes an awful creaking sound and the fence sways to and fro.

"You seen Sophia lately? Ain't caught her in some time, just wonderin' if everything's okay." Carl's hands still but he doesn't look up; Daryl can't see his face due to his shaggy hair, not that he can comment much on that. It's then he realizes the boy isn't wearing anything more than a t-shirt and there are odd grey stains speckled across his hands and forearms. It may be nearing spring but it still gets too damn cold, especially once the sun sinks down.

"Not in a while."

"How long's a while?" Heaving a sigh, Carl yanks off a chunk of fence off finally, analyzing the sharp points and edges, his fingers weaving through the links.

"A week or something."

"And you ain't think to say nothin'? Ain't you two always together?"

Carl seems to visibly shrink and Daryl wonders if it's the wind that just picked up or something worse. His shoulders are hunched and he spins the chain link in his hand.

"I didn't think much of it, I know she skips out on her dad sometimes. But it _has_ been a while."

"Carl, you gotta tell me if you know something I don't." Daryl wasn't messing around. The way the kid wobbled on his feet and wouldn't meet the older man's eye... it was concerning.

Carl looks like he's about to say something when a dark car pulls up, windows tinted. It's beat to shit but was a nice ride once upon time, Daryl can tell. He could probably fix it up real good if he had the time or will to do so anymore. The shotgun door pops open and Daryl almost can't identify him with the big white beard. But with a harder look, he recognizes him from the pictures he's seen, from old case files and the few slung up on tavern walls. Before they got taken down, that is.

Hershel Greene hobbles onto the curb, a limp seeming to affect his mobility some, but he's able to get around just fine. Daryl glances back at Carl and by the way the boy's eyes are as big as saucers, he reckons he knows who the man is too.

"I gotta go get Judith. Dad asked..." Daryl nods once before the kid takes off down the sidewalk. He'll have to question Carl another time.

Doing his best to stay somewhat concealed and unsuspecting, Daryl watches the older man ascend the stairs to the station. The headlights on the car flick off and a younger man pops out of the driver's seat. Daryl can put a name to him too, now that he brushed up on his Greene family and company facts, thanks to some of Rick's old files. It's the eldest daughter's husband, Glenn.

The guy pulls out something from his jacket pocket and puts it in his mouth.

"You need a light?" Daryl calls out, causing the man to all but jump out of his skin. Glenn gawks over at him for a moment before shaking his head and holding up a pack of gum in his hand.

Daryl's mouth twitches into a smirk before making his way up the stairs, into the faint warmth of the police station.

Hershel's not cooped up in an interrogation room like most people there to be talked to but then again, he came down on his own will. Rick's listening intently to whatever he's saying, head cocked and eyes focused and Daryl needs to know what's being said. He treads closer though not obviously so, taking a seat at a desk that's been empty for months. The old man talks in a more hushed voice and he has to strain his ears to pick up on much of anything. The only thing that rings clear as day is Walsh's voice, booming and accusatory.

"So then you're telling me everything people have been telling us isn't true? Why would they all be ganging up on you like that? Must be some reason."

He's not there fifteen minutes before Glenn appears in the doorway, sullen-faced and quick feet as he makes his way to his father-in-law's side. They whisper between each other and Hershel stands with the younger man's help.

"Leaving already? We hardly talked about anything!" Shane calls out as the two men turn for the door. The only reply he gets is Glenn tossing a look over his shoulder.

"Shane." Rick's voice is solid and his partner reluctantly steps down, hand rubbing furiously over the top of his head.

Daryl watches Hershel as he leaves and the old man must be able to feel eyes on him because their gazes lock. Nodding at Daryl once, he reciprocates the motion but he doesn't have a clue what it means, if it means anything at all.

What kind of father is Hershel Greene? The guy has his demons (or at least had them), there's no denying that. But does one flaw destroy someone's capability of being a decent parent? Maggie and Shawn both have their issues but as far as Daryl knows, it's not much compared to the shit he's seen. And Beth, while he doesn't fully know her deal, she is different in his eyes. Daryl assumes he'll never figure that out because he doesn't have much to base it off of.

"How'd you get him to come in?" Rick leans against the desk Daryl's hunched over at, crossing his arms. His tone isn't suspicious, just curious. He had meant to tell the Sheriff about Beth some time back but never got to it and now, well, it just seems silly too. It's not like he'd expect anyone to believe him, how he reacted to Merle's story was proof enough of that. No, for now that was best something he kept tucked in his back pocket.

"Asked a favor of a friend."

A few days pass and still no sign of the Peletier girl. He's getting antsy, the type where he wants to itch off his skin but instead he busies himself with loops around the city, checking every damn building and dumpster and niche until he comes home, feet heavy and thoughts bleak.

There's a knock at the door, faint and gentle, like the person behind it doesn't wanna wake someone from their sleep. Daryl doesn't know who it could be; he doesn't get visitors, except Sophia, but she never knocks. Something tells him it's nothing to worry about but he knows this place better than that. He knows he must always be alert and prepared, so he doesn't second guess himself when he grabs his gun from the side table drawer.

The peephole is cracked but he can see an outline of someone in the dim light outside. They knock again, this time a bit louder, and he yanks the door open just a few inches, gun hidden. Maybe it's the thick polluted air playing tricks on his eyes, like those desert mirages that sometimes happen in movies. Or he could be dreaming, though he doesn't seem to dream much these days. It's so lucid, but maybe that is the case. She's so vivid before him, wind blown hair and wrapped up tight in her jacket.

"Hi," Beth greets him in all but a whisper. His mouth is suddenly dry and he pulls the door open further.

"How'd you find me?"

"Picked up some tricks on tracking someone down, I guess." A smile spreads across her lips just as the wind howls and he realizes he should invite her in.

"You follow me?" He motions for her to come in and she does quickly, her shoulders sagging in relief once she is blocked from the cold.

"No, but I had some help." Daryl shuts the door with a soft click and remembers the gun, still firmly in his grip. And she notices it too. "Why do you have that out?" She doesn't appear frightened or concerned and he wonders why.

"Don't get visitors much." It's on the tip of his tongue, to ask her again how she found him. But he's distracted by her wandering, her peering at newspapers strewn on the table and drawings taped to the wall. He slips the gun back into the drawer before turning to watch her. Her chin's tipped up and her hands are pressed into her pockets; she all but strolls along the room as if she's enjoying pieces at a museum.

"Are you a father?" Beth asks, revealing a hand and reaching up to touch the corner of a sketch Sophia had given him. It's a horse galloping about in a field, gifted to him back in her bright colors and sunny skies days. He shakes his head, almost too quickly.

"Naw." He leaves it at that because it's kind of a complicated story and he doesn't want to hear himself talk; he just wants to listen as much as he can. And watch. It's odd that she's in his space though not unwanted. "Why you here?" It's blunter than he intends but she seems unfazed.

"My dad went and talked to Rick..."

"Yeah, I was there."

"I know." She smiles again and there's an almost mischievous twinkle in her eye that causes him to shift from foot to foot. Then she goes serious. "If I tell you something, you can't tell the Sheriff." Daryl straightens his posture at the proposition.

"Don't know if I can promise you that." Beth tilts her head at him before taking a seat on the arm of his sofa.

"You could've just said okay and lied."

"Ain't about that." He can feel her eyes boring into him and he has to build himself up to focus in on her himself.

"My daddy does give out stuff, but it's for people who need it. People who are sick and in pain." Daryl keeps his face blank but his mind starts racing. It seems like such a noble thing to do, such an honorable thing that while he knows the man would be put away for it, maybe he shouldn't. Because it's a good thing, no matter what the law says.

Then again, she may be lying. It wouldn't be the first time someone's spun a lie to protect their kin. Hell, Daryl has done it more times than he can count for his dumbass of a brother.

"The Governor does too, but he exploits them. Gets people hooked." There's a sadness that overtakes her then and he's not sure what the cause is: if it's the weight of what this man has done to her family and their name, or the situation itself. Maybe the burden of carrying such a heavy secret, trying to do something worthwhile and only being seen shamefully. Daryl is familiar with that feeling.

He knows in his gut then that she's being truthful, in the way her eyelashes flutter and she lets out a long exhale like she's been holding her breath for years. He may be the first person she's ever told and knowing that she trusts him enough to reveal that, it does something odd to his insides.

"Beth, I have to tell Rick."

"Please, just leave him out of this. My daddy isn't hurting anyone, he's trying to do something good." Daryl nods reluctantly but he doesn't know how he can keep that kind of bomb to himself, not when it might help with catching the Governor.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Why are you doing all this?" While he's not perfectly clear on what she's alluding to, he's pretty sure he knows what she means. All of this. The snooping and narcing and patrolling like he's some blue collar, reluctant-yet-wannabe hero. All of that. "What are you getting out of it?"

"What do you mean what am I gettin'? I'm gettin' nothin'."

"Everyone's after something, at least in this place."

"Like what?"

"Power, money, glory." Her words settle on him like a pile of bricks; he thinks of every asshole he's ever had a run in with. Shane, after the glory of being some kind of savior, going as far as blindly pointing fingers with just the hope of solving something. Ed was all about power, flexing it over his wife and his little girl. And Merle would do just about anything for some cash.

"What's he after then?"

"The Governor? I think he wants all three."

"And your dad?"

"The same thing I think you're after." She's on the move then, gravitating closer and closer until he can all but feel her breaths against his chest. There's a voice in the back of his head telling him to reach up and touch her, to grasp onto her and not let go until his fingers fall off or until she asks, one or the other. "It's one of the reasons I trust you."

"Shouldn't trust no one," he all but mumbles. Her arms slide around him, pressing herself into him and he swears it's like she was meant to fit in there just right. His hand curls around her elbow and he doesn't think twice before letting his head dip down into her hair.

He's better prepared when she kisses him this time and he knows it's all real by how her warm skin feels beneath his rough hands and how sweet she tastes on his lips. There's something about how they connect that is so unlike anything he's experienced because he's never been the type to have friends and his family is all sorts of fucked up, but when she beams at him and caresses him and clutches at him, it's unreal. It's such a big reminder for why he does everything he does. There should be more beautiful and wonderful things in the world, more things like her and whatever it is that transpires between them.

There's an unfamiliar desperate part of him that wishes she'd stay but he understands. She lays low, always has, and while he may not know all the reasons as to why, he respects her choice. Her leaving in the middle of the night makes the most sense. It's pretty quiet out there for now; an ambulance rushes by once, painting her skin siren red through the blinds and he has to look away because of how much he hates it. Beth notices the view from his bedroom window too when she tugs the blinds up, before she puts on even one article of clothing. The painting doesn't do her justice at all.

They both dress together, in mostly silence. There's not goodbye embrace but she holds his hand for a second and kisses the back of it. Daryl ponders when he'll get to see her again.

It's not a minute before there's quick, rapid knocks at his door and his first instinct is that something is terribly wrong. But when he hurries over and pulls the thing open, Beth's standing there all bright-eyed and smiling wide.

"You need to see this."

She grabs his arm and tugs him across the hallway, down the flights of stairs until they are just outside the front door to his building. With her fingers squeezing his, she points with her free hand to a light pole on the corner, not even ten feet from them. The wood is distressed and beaten to hell but painted on its rough surface are bright white angel wings, the feathers so even and identical that they are near perfect. But he doesn't get it.

"What's this?" Beth lets go of his hand finally, her arm sliding around his back until her palm is flush against his vest. He can feel the tips of her fingers gliding along the material like they're dancing, tracing the lines.

"Just like the ones you wear."

Daryl's stomach flips and no, that doesn't make any sense. It's just a coincidence or some insignificant graffiti. There's no rhyme or reason for why anyone would paint those for him.

But he sees them again, a few times over the following couple of days. The next is near the police station, the same precise pattern painted along the side of a large blue mailbox across the street. And then again by one of the clubs Beth said she sings at once in a blue moon.

He drops by there to visit her because truth be told, he misses her. He misses the sound of her voice and the way her eyes gleam when she smiles and the smell of her hair. He misses how her skin feels under his hands. But most of all, he misses knowing she's safe and the only way he's certain she is is when he's there to see it for himself and help keep things that way. Deep down, he knows she can hold her own; hell, she's gone this long without him in her life and she's tough beneath her small frame and blonde hair. He can't help it though.

When he finally gets her alone in the dressing room, the first thing she brings up are those damn wings.

"I see them all over."

"They don't mean nothin'. They don't have to do with me at all." Beth give him a look before disappearing into the bathroom, closing the door only halfway while she changes. He looks down at the ground out of reflex, willing his mind to conjure up anything besides the mental picture of her disrobing.

"I've seen them on the steps of that women's home that was attacked. And near the alley, where Officer Walsh murdered Otis." His head snaps up then, perplexed at how she knows who was behind the trigger. But the way Shane always talked about it, all proud and smug, it's no wonder that news traveled outside of the station.

The locations are suspect, he'll admit that. But he doesn't know what to make of it. "So what? Someone after me, followin' me?" Beth emerges from the adjoined room, straightening the hem of her shirt and stepping in front of him. He's bold enough this time to reach out and touch her waist.

"I don't think so. All the good you've done..." Daryl doesn't believe he's done much of anything good. "People remember you and they remember the things you've done."

Silence fills the room and he's okay with that because he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. He just wants to enjoy the time he has with her because he knows how limited it will be and it's such an amazing escape from his every day. She's playing with the flap of his vest when she speaks up.

"Why didn't you kill that man?"

"What man?" Daryl's come across so many people in his life that maybe if he had taken care of them completely, the streets might be a bit safer. But that's not his call, he has to remind himself of that regularly. He's no judge, he's not God. Let God make that call. God and him, they don't get along much nowadays but if someone's gonna have the blood on their hands, it's not Daryl. That's not his place.

"The Peletier girl's father." Daryl's blood runs cold because what does he say to that? He doesn't have an answer. Why didn't he try to take in Sophia, why didn't he just kill Ed?

"I ain't a killer."

"No, you aren't." She just barely smiles at him and he's not sure why because he suddenly feels like a villain, like maybe if he had ended the bastard's life, everything would be better. The sun would shine brighter and everyone would smile more; Sophia would be home and Beth wouldn't have to sneak around the city. Guess they'll never know if that would be true.

Glenn picks up Beth like normal and the guy must recognize him because he gives Daryl a wave. It's weird, Daryl's not the friendly acquaintance type but he returns the gesture all the same. He wishes he had kissed her one last time before they drive off.

There's a call at the station next day about the body of a young female found on the outskirts of town and his stomach sinks. It's an awful, guilty weight he wears once the relief dissipates, because the girl at the scene is taller and older than Sophia.

It's eating away at him, not knowing where she is at, going over and over in his mind all the things he could have done to have possibly prevented her disappearance. And it's then that he decides it: he's put off making a trip to Ed's for long enough.

He doesn't want to over-think anything so he doesn't doubt himself when he pulls open the drawer for his gun, but it's empty once he does. His stomach plunges and swirls and he's not sure where it could have gone because how could anyone even fucking know about it?

Except Beth. Beth had seen it.

The concern gets shoved to the back of his mind for now because Ed, that's his main focus. And when he shows up, the way the drunk's face drops and skin pales, he knows he's not expecting it. Part of Daryl wants to pummel him, to finish what he had started years ago, _finally_. But he refrains because like he told Beth, he isn't a murderer.

"Where is she?" He's calm even when Ed plays dumb at first and then when he claims to not know and okay, Daryl's just gonna scare him a bit by grabbing his shirt and haphazardly tossing him against the wall. The stench of booze is potent and Daryl is taken back to his mother's smokey coat and his father's booming, terrifying voice. It's awful and why didn't he pull Sophia out of here when he had the chance?

He's proud of himself when he leaves, Ed only shook up (maybe a little sobered up too). Daryl tears the place a part looking for any sign of the girl but he comes up empty-handed.

The station is quiet but it's still better than being in his apartment, alone with his mind and the scenarios that run through it. Instead he's at the empty desk he's deemed his own, mulling over how many deaths this place will rack up this year. He's also half inclined to tell Rick about his missing gun but before he can, Carl's hovering around him like a damn fly.

"What do you want, kid?" The young boy is fidgety and Daryl notes the faint splatters of black on his shirt, hidden beneath his jacket.

"You haven't found her?"

Daryl shakes his head once, turning his eyes to the ground as he hears Carl hop up on the desk before speaking again.

"I think I might know where she is."


End file.
